


What happens in rooms with fresh bed linens

by Blestidious_Snoftly



Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, My First Smut, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:29:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22466464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blestidious_Snoftly/pseuds/Blestidious_Snoftly
Summary: The first time promised us by TGGTGL, which Lee was too classy to publish, but which I am definitively not.
Relationships: Henry "Monty" Montague/Percy Newton
Comments: 9
Kudos: 128





	1. The most exquisite sin

The room smells fresh, like lye and warm, beachy sunlight. It's a soft place, warm, and quiet and since the crew of the Eleftheria is escorting a protesting Felicity to the crafting fair, all ours.

Monty's eyes are soft, too. Soft and concentrated in a way his almost never were, glazed with drink or fear or that impassable shield he... But no.  
"There's... er, there's pillows. And I changed the sheets. Not that anything happened that made me need to-- I. Am usually better at this, darling." At the last, Monty bursts into a too-loud, too-short laugh, and he twines his fingers into mine and presses a soft kiss on two of my knuckles, which sets me completely on fire. 

Henry Montague the Fourth. He stands five inches shorter than me, and that shock of red hair falls temptingly over his eyes, stopping short at that noble Montague nose. And then, he flashes those dimples that I happen to know have felled men and women with greater wills than mine. 

Oh, but I want to be felled. Fellated. Filled. I see the liquid want in my best friend's eyes and I pull him towards me. 

Standing, he leans into my body, hands expertly tracing my spine, then the waist of my trousers, while his lips trace my heartbeat through the skin of my throat. An involuntary whimper escapes me.

"Oh god, Percy," Monty says, and I can feel him through the front of his pants. "We need to," he says breathlessly, "we need to slow down. How... What are... What do you like?"

What do I like? I know he knows, but I don't know how little he knows I know. How much am I supposed to know? But I feel the way his arm wraps protectively around my waist and it's precious and perfect and right; I can't risk losing that by not being honest with him now. "I don't know. I think I want... You? Somehow? Not entirely sure, but..." My voice is hiding, goddamn it, in the back of my throat. "My hand has never done me wrong."

"What's that, darling?" His voice, that beautiful brassy tenor now breathless and gentle, vibrates at the fundemental frequency of my chest and undoes me. He's unlaced my shirt but not removed it, and a sleeve hangs off my shoulder where it has fallen. Now he traces a finger along the contours of my chest and is staring intently into my eyes. An expert evaluating his pupil. All the while his hand presses gently into my hip and that lean muscled arm anchors me to him.

"I've been..." There's no good way to end that sentence so I say, lamely, "busy." He raises an eyebrow. "That's all I've had time for, you minx."

That gets a laugh, a real one. His face is one of the few I have seen that can express joy so purely, it hurts, and he does it now. I feel the ache, a comfortable sort of thing like a healing wound. "Are you sure, then?" He asks, striving to sound casual and failing. He runs his hand through his hair. "I want to... Percy I want the world for you. I want to be a reason you smile that shy little smile of yours, and often. I want there never to be pain and if there is I want to definitively not have caused it--" 

I silence him by pressing the pads of my fingers to his lips. There's stubble on his chin, and seeing it in the noon light feels more intimate than even the kiss. I lead him to his bed, and kneel on either side of his hips. His eyes are liquid want again, his lips parted behind my fingers, and as he looks up at me I want and want and want. "Show me?" I manage, hoarsely.

"Perce, it's the moment I've been training for all my life." Before I can respond to that, his mouth is on mine and my shirt is off and he is doing something absolutely delightful to a sensitive part of my chest. My hands rake through his hair and he gives an approving moan. I am loathe to relieve him of his finery, but as the vest and shirt come off, I see the delicate curve of his stomach and decide I don't mind after all. He dismounts the bed and kneels in front of me. I'm suddenly self-conscious about my boyishly thin body, my wide hips and--

"You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen, Percy Newton," he whispers as he banishes my trousers, then my britches, to the pile at the foot of the bed. His mouth is close to a part of me that has never had a mouth close to it before and he asks "May I have the pleasure?" Puffs of warm breath make the nerves along my, erm, mast, scream and sing. I want him, but I can't look at it, can't look at him looking at it, so I close my eyes and nod.

He kisses up my leg from my knee to the seam of my hip, and I warn him "I may not have, you know, very long," but he tells me to close my eyes and that his mouth is mine to do with what I please in however much time I please it and I swear I last five minutes in the warmth of him before I feel myself losing control of-- "I'm going to," and he says, muffled, unbelievably, vibrating me to my core, "good" and he doesn't stop the deft and skillful movements of head and hand and so I finish, fingers tangled in his soft auburn waves. I lay back, wondering whether I've died or if I'm dreaming the whole thing.

And he clambers up next to me, tucking his head and hands together into my chest like he has hundreds of times since we first shared a bed as kids, only this time I have not a stitch of clothing on my person, and he's in his pants.  
"Monty," I say, stroking his hair. "Mad, impossible, marvelous Monty." I press my forehead to his, and he meets my lips with a kiss that is a large part smile. "May I... you know. You?" 

He laughs, and for a moment I'm shocked, then hurt. Does he not think that I'm capable? "What? Listen, I may be inexperienced but I'm not a eunuch. I know what to do."

He flips on his back, his eyes never leaving mine. He folds his arms behind his head. "You do, do you?" He asks, quirking an eyebrow.


	2. The deed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah, this part. I wrote this in the waiting room at the dentist next to a sweet old man who had no idea the SIN I was bringing into this world, I feel filthy, please enjoy

I think of all the ways putting my mouth on him could go horribly wrong. What had he done with his teeth? How did he keep from gagging? "I want to," I amend. Then I think of earlier, of being felled. Which had happened almost immediately, as soon as Monty had kissed me. Fellated. Which had followed close behind, and been absolutely spectacular. Filled. Hadn't I imagined so many nights, alone in bed, how his hips would feel behind me, how his hands would grip me possessively? How he might whimper my name if I were to do something deft and clever with my hips? Of course, touching myself after was dosed with a heaping helping of shame. Who thought like that about their best friend? 

Maybe the bloke whose best friend had just swallowed his load and who now lay tented and prone beside him. I screw up the courage. And lose it the moment I look into those liquid brown eyes. And again. On the fifth time, I manage to say, "Do you like... having it from behind? With a bloke, I mean?" I ask, my voice barely audible, a flush consuming my neck and face. 

"Darling, I've had it in any configuration that will have me" he says, and his voice betrays enthusiasm, but is at the same time controlled. "What did you have in mind?"

"I was wondering what, well, er, what it... I think I'm ready. For backgammon." I rush. His face breaks into a grin. 

"Well." He says, but he can't stop smiling and eventually buries his face in one of the many pillows strewn across the bed. When he looks up, he's more serious, but pink as a berry. "We'd have to be careful. You'd need to tell me the moment something hurts, or is uncomfortable." Was this really happening?

"Y-yes, that... thank you, I will," I manage. He kisses me again, and this time he presses me into the mattress. His hand is between my thighs again, sending waves of want through me until I think I'll burst. 

Monty is very serious about this. He ties a ribbon around his head, his hair being too short to tie back, and with it,pushes his fringe away from his face. He brings a jar of I don't know what out from I have no idea where, and I answer a few personal questions about regularity apparently to his satisfaction, because he has me get on my elbows and knees on the bed, and talks gently to me once I can't see him anymore, asking questions like "is this all right, darling?" and "I've got you" which isn't a question but an absobloodylutely capital thing to hear from someone who is about to engage with you in very intimate sin, and I swear my face will break for the grinning.

I'm so much more than comfortable. His hands on my posterior are at first cold, then warmer once I shriek my protest and he shoves them beneath his arms for a while, both of us laughing in nervousness as well as pleasure. His hands don't venture near where I think they will, and with every touch, stroke, I get more and more desperate for his fingers to find their target. I squirm, and he taps me lightly, but squarely, exactly where I want it. The pleasure ripples through my body. I gasp, then wriggle in appreciation, trying to find his hand again.

"Steady on," he says, and his voice is breathy as he bends, fine hairs on his chest brushing my back. His lips find my ear, and meanwhile he traces his temptatious finger around and around and then. AND THEN. A moan rises unbidden from my lips. I shudder. It's so much more, so much better than I had imagined. At first. It is, after a moment, excruciatingly slow, the pleasure having receded into a dull... good-ness. On impulse, I back into him, and am rewarded with a sharp pain that causes my breath to catch in my throat. "Hey," Monty admonishes, still ridiculously kind and soft-spoken, "you all right, Perce?"   
"It's, er, not doing much for me... I mean it's fine! It's fine," I repeat, as his hand slows, then stops. I wonder if I've ruined it. Blast it all, why did I have-- but then I hear the whisper of cloth on skin, and Monty's breath coming fast and he asks:  
"Do you want me to..?"  
"Backgammon?"  
"Backgammon."  
"God, yes." And he slides into me, and his hands feel possessive and beautiful on my hips, and the mechanics of it all are tight and on the verge of pleasure and pain, like a single string vibrating at the highest point of its range.

And then Monty MOVES and it's a whole damn symphony. 

The rest is a euphoric blur, and not a very long one at that, bless him. We lay together for what feels an unreliably endless expanse of time, and I drift in and out of a sun-washed and love-drunk haze. The process of tidying our sin is more involved than I would have guessed, and after, I watch blearily as Monty moves around the room with a sort of nervous energy, throwing things under the bed and stoping every few moments to press a kiss to my forehead.  
"And you're sure you're okay? Feeling achy? Sore? Burning?” and though the only thing that seems to be burning is my face as he asks what are, to my mind, unnecessarily intimate questions, I let him fuss over me until he collapses, exhausted, under our covers, and begins breathing steady and deep almost immediately. "Love you to the very limits of it, Percy Newton," he murmurs into my shoulder. And in that moment, despite my illness, his love for drink, and our newfound combined poverty, London seems not just possible, but truly the only thing I could have ever done.

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued


End file.
